


Let Nothing You Dismay

by brynnmck



Category: Castle
Genre: Christmas, Episode Related, Episode Tag, F/M, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brynnmck/pseuds/brynnmck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Suddenly it all falls into place in his mind: the fact that neither of them has had more than a few sips of alcohol all night, the fact that the set of Beckett's shoulders hadn't quite relaxed even while she and Martha had been forgetting most of the words to "O Come All Ye Faithful," the fact that he's got everything that matters to him here in one room and yet he keeps finding himself looking outside. </i> Just a little post-ep tag for "Secret Santa."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Nothing You Dismay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/gifts).



> A slightly belated Christmas present for SD Wolfpup. I love you, SDW! ♥

Rick takes a hearty sip of his whipped-cream-drenched hot chocolate, leans against the window, and surveys the scene before him.

It's the perfect Christmas Eve. 

The remains of a feast are scattered at the table. There's wrapping paper strewn all over the floor in front of the tree. Carefully-arranged lights are blinking merrily at him from every corner of the room, and the three women he loves more than anything in the world are gathered around the piano, singing carols. 

"Come sing with us, darling!" his mother calls after they wind up a rousing rendition of "Mele Kalikimaka," complete with Beckett joining Alexis for an attempt at hula dancing. 

Rick salutes them with his mug. "I learned very early on never to try to upstage Martha Rodgers."

"Wise boy," his mother answers.

"Needs more glügg," Alexis tells Beckett in a stage-whisper. His beloved daughter has clearly been indulging in her share of said beverage, if her cheeks are anything to go by—she's got two perfect little circles of red high up on her cheekbones, so that between that and the dress, she looks like the unbelievably adorable offspring of a disco ball and a Hummel.

"Marshmallows," he explains to her, lifting his mug again.

Alexis winces. "Ooh. Glügg and marshmallows do not mix," she informs Beckett. "We tried one year, putting it in the hot chocolate? And the marshmallows—it just ate holes right through them. Like, have you seen _Aliens_?"

"Ooh," Beckett repeats, with a wince of her own. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse," Alexis says mournfully. "It was tragic." Beckett laughs, and Alexis giggles, and Martha says, "Now you're just making me thirsty—hit me again, kiddo," gesturing with her own glass, and Rick's heart feels like it's growing fast enough to leave the Grinch's in the dust. It is, in fact, the best. Christmas Eve. Ever.

Almost.

Because beyond the Christmas tree, beyond the wrapping paper and the holiday table, there are windows. And he seems to keep drifting over to them without thinking about it, the glass cold against his shoulder as he peers down into the artificial light.

"Master of all you survey?" Beckett asks, coming to stand next to him. Her eyes are bright and warm, and she's got her own mug of hot chocolate in her hand.

He smiles at her. "I've loved these windows ever since I first saw this place. If I was ever short on inspiration, I'd just look down, and see a million lives being lived: a million errands being run, a million hearts being broken, a million discoveries being made, every second."

"That's a nice thought." She leans over to look down, too, and she's smiling, but there's something not quite right about it. Something just a little bit off, like they're living in a snow globe that's been shifted a tenth of a degree away from center. And suddenly it all falls into place in his mind: the fact that neither of them has had more than a few sips of alcohol all night, the fact that the set of Beckett's shoulders hadn't quite relaxed even while she and Martha had been forgetting most of the words to "O Come All Ye Faithful," the fact that he's got everything that matters to him here in one room and yet he keeps finding himself looking outside. All the clues that piece together the true story, and he reaches out to thread his fingers through Beckett's. 

"Kate. Thank you for being here."

She tilts her head to look back at him. "You're welcome. I figured it was time for a new tradition."

"And that means so much to me." He squeezes her hand. "But… how long was your shift supposed to go tonight?"

A shadow passes across her face, almost too quickly for him to catch, but he's been hanging out with detectives for a few years now, and he has a particular interest in this one. "Eight to four a.m.," she says.

He checks his watch; it's not quite eleven yet. "Then let's go," he says, in a decisive rush.

She lets out a short, incredulous laugh. "What? No, I told you, Karpowski's got it covered, it's fine."

"Krapowski," Rick says scornfully. "I mean, he's a great guy, and sure, he's good at his job, but…" He shrugs. "He's not you."

She laughs again, the embarrassed, pleased sound she always makes when he blindsides her with a compliment. It never gets old. "Castle. Your family is here. And this is important to you, and I—"

"It's been a perfect night," he interrupts her. "And the more perfect it is here, the more I can't stop thinking about all the other families wanting to have a perfect night. And that it might not be, for all of them, and that if there's anyone in this city who can keep them safe, or—if the worst happens—help them pick up the pieces afterward… it's you. So." He leans in and kisses her forehead, and pulls back grinning. "We've got a few hours left. Let's go save Christmas. Again," he adds, remembering the last few days.

"You're insane," she tells him, and she's shaking her head in disbelief, but her face is lit up like all the city lights put together, and she's already starting to move toward the door. 

"Mother, Alexis, thank you for a wonderful evening," Rick announces, letting go of Beckett long enough to retrieve his coat from the back of the couch. "But Detective Beckett and I—"

"Have to go to the precinct, yes, of course, darling, it's about time." His mother waves a hand airily.

"But—I—" Rick sputters. How the hell did she—?

"You're not subtle, Dad," Alexis informs him as she hooks a scarf around his neck. "You've been looking out the windows all night, like you were wondering what dark deeds were being perpetrated against the good citizens of New York City." She tosses the end of the scarf over his shoulder with a melodramatic flourish, then throws herself against his chest for a hug. "And of course you guys wouldn't be you guys if you didn't want to go save them."

Rick wraps his arms around her and squeezes until he can hear her squeak. "You're the best daughter in the entire world, you know that?"

"I know." She clings tightly for a moment. When she rocks back on her heels, she's got a twinkle in her eyes that never fails to make Rick proud. "So I can go meet Max for an egg nog milkshake at the all-night diner, right?"

He puts on his most solemn look and tugs on the end of her hair. "Only if you promise not to be home before sunrise."

"Deal," Alexis answers happily. Next to them, Martha gives Beckett a warm hug and presses what seems to be an unnecessarily large flask of glügg into her hand.

"For the road," she says with a wink.

"Thank you so much, Martha, it's been such a lovely evening," Beckett tells her. "I'm so sorry to cut it short."

"Cut it short?" Martha makes a derisive noise. "I'm from the theater, honey—at eleven o'clock, we're just getting started. I'm sure I'll be able to find _more_ than enough company to keep things merry and bright." She lowers her voice and nudges Beckett in the ribs. "And if I play my cards right, maybe I can even get my tree trimmed, if you know what I mean."

"Aaaaand that's our cue," Rick says quickly, chalking another one up in the seemingly endless string of vague maternally-induced trauma. He kisses her on the cheek. "Try to be good, Mother."

"But why, when being naughty is so much more fun?" is his mother's parting shot before she shuts the door in their faces.

* * * * *

Rick had thought he'd seen the 1-2 deserted before—two o'clock on a Wednesday morning, for example, poring over files and trying to focus on something other than Beckett's lip caught between her teeth as she works out how she's going to nail another bad guy—but this is a new level of ghost town. And it's about to get a little more deserted yet, because Beckett is crossing to Karpowski's desk, where the detective in question is slumped over in his chair, engaged in what has every indication of being a long winter's nap.

Beckett throws Rick a wry smile over her shoulder—he catches it, packs it away into the mental file he keeps of all the times she's let him behind the curtain, that small spark of _we're on the same team_ that never gets old, either—and clears her throat loudly. Karpowski jumps, then swears as his knee connects with the underside of his desk. At least Rick hopes it's his knee.

"Hey, Karpowski," Beckett says, politely ignoring the string of self-inflicted profanity. "I hate to do this to you, but would you mind if I took the rest of my shift back?"

Karpowski blinks up at her; Rick can almost see the fog hanging around his head. "But you—"

"I know." Beckett lays a hand on his arm. "You're a stand-up guy for offering to fill in at the last minute, and I'll make sure the Captain hears about it. But I, ah." She glances over her shoulder again, and her smile this time slides across her face slow and sweet, with just a glint of wonder. Rick's got a whole different mental file for those smiles. "I had a change of plans." 

While Rick's still trying to catch his breath, Karpowski stares at Beckett for another few seconds, then checks his watch, shrugs, and slides his chair back. "Okay. I got a bottle of scotch at home with my name on it."

"Oh yeah?" Beckett raises an eyebrow. "What's your brand? I'll make sure you've got one to replace it, as a thanks for all your trouble."

Karpowski shrugs again. "I'm Jewish, Detective, so Christmas to me pretty much means holiday pay, but if you're in a generous mood…" He winks at her. "Bowmore, double-cask."

Beckett laughs. "It'll be on your desk when you come back."

"If you insist," Karpowski answers, cheerful now. He tucks his arms into his jacket. "'Night, Beckett. Keep Castle out of my stuff," he adds, louder. "I know you like my fine-point pens, writer boy."

Rick claps a hand to his chest. "As if I'd steal from a man who's been here burning the Hanukkah candle at both ends."

Beckett rolls her eyes with the long-suffering look that Rick delights in, as Karpowski groans and shuffles toward the door. "Holiday pay ain't worth your puns, Castle."

"Thanks again, Karpowski!" Beckett calls after him. While she's got her back turned, Rick takes the opportunity to sidle closer, till he can reach around her to run his fingers over the pen lying on Karpowski's desk.

"I do like a fine-point pen," he says softly in her ear.

He can feel her shoulders move, and hears the quick exhale that means she's laughing in spite of herself. "If that's supposed to be a line, you might want to reconsider what you're implying."

Rick wrinkles his nose, considering. "Eh. It's all in the tone, right?"

"Just keep telling yourself that," Beckett answers, but she nudges her shoulder quickly against his before she heads for her own desk.

Rick's starting to hear the siren song of the espresso machine—he may not have had much glügg, but the little he did have isn't going down without a fight—but he takes a minute just to appreciate the picture as Beckett settles herself in her chair. The bullpen is dim, the harsh fluorescent overhead lights having given way to a string of multicolored LED bulbs that someone had strung up a few weeks before. Ryan's desk is picture-perfect, and conspicuously missing the lingerie box; Rick grins and mentally high-fives him. (Esposito had outlawed fist-bumps several months back, on the grounds that Rick and Ryan didn't possess the necessary swag. Beckett, of course, had been deemed fit for fist-bumping duty, but saves it for special occasions only.) Esposito's desk is scattered with a few papers, including the telltale green of an evidence requisition form. Rick can't resist a closer look, and the details—laid out in Esposito's near-illegible scrawl—spark a genuine warmth in his chest, and the hope that his friend has found some company after all.

Even the murder board is as clean and quiet as a fresh snowfall. Rick watches Beckett stare at it for a few seconds before arranging her phone at an optimum answering angle and turning her attention to the pile of paperwork in front of her with a small, contented sigh. After that, he can't _not_ be near her, so he gives up on the espresso and takes up his usual spot next to her desk.

She glances up at him half-nervously, half-apologetically when he slides into the chair, but he just gives her an easy smile and slips his laptop out of its case. He pulls up the latest draft of his new book, mostly for show; he adds and deletes a few words, then moves some commas around, but he can't get into the macabre mood. Especially not the fictional one, not when Beckett's phone could ring at any second. He can feel her watching him, though, and sure enough, when he looks up, her lips are curved, a couple of her fingers tucked underneath the page in front of her like she got lost in mid-task.

"What?" he asks. He knows, of course—the look on her face, the warmth in her eyes, is as clear as the words on the page in front of him—but sue him, he's spent years wanting and waiting, and he wants to hear it.

Her mouth quirks up at one corner. "Just… I didn't know you could be quiet for this long. It's freaking me out a little."

He gasps. "I'll have you know, Detective Beckett, that I have an impeccable sense of the mood of a room," he answers loftily. "I just don't always choose to exercise it."

"Ahhhh." She snickers. "Is that what it is?"

"In this case, though…" he continues, then lowers his voice and shifts his foot until it's resting up against hers, there where it's tucked underneath her chair. "I know a vigil when I see it, Kate. Even I can respect that."

Her eyes flick down to the page in front of her, and she nods. "It's," she says, and when she meets his eyes again, her own are shiny. "It's good not to hold it alone."

"Yeah?" he asks. He'd wondered about that, wondered if she'd get here and find out she preferred to keep this tradition to herself.

"Yeah," she says, nodding firmly, and he can see her throat move as he swallows. "Yeah. Really, really good." She presses her foot back against his, then huffs out an impatient breath and reaches out to grab his hand instead, gripping hard for a few seconds before letting go. Warmth tingles along his skin, everywhere she touched.

He can see her teetering on the edge, though, so he offers, "Besides, being here with you, while you stand between New York and anything that threatens it? It's like I'm dating Batman. Only without the—" he circles his index fingers in front of his chest—"nipple suit thing. Because that would just be weird, even on you."

She snorts out a laugh. " _I'm_ Batman? You’re the rich playboy, Castle. If I'm anybody, I'm Renee Montoya. Well." She cocks her head. "If Renee Montoya were into guys."

"Oh, man. Correct grammar _and_ semi-obscure comic book references?" he breathes. "What have I asked you about doing that while we're in public?"

"Sorry," she says, but her smirk isn't sorry at all. 

Rick's hands clench helplessly, emptily. He is _so_ going to make her make good on that later. "Don't you have justice to be filing?" he asks finally, because it's either that or sweep all the papers off the desk in a grand romantic gesture that would probably end with him handcuffed to the chair, and not in the fun way. 

"Don't you have words to be smithing?" she shoots back. Sure enough, his screen-saver has kicked in: _you should be writing_ in bold, accusatory text. His screen-saver is a jerk. 

"Touché," he answers, and, with a sigh theatrical enough to do his mother proud, goes back to poking aimlessly at his neglected document. For a little while, he keeps an eye on Beckett, watching for signs of distress, but she seems almost happy, dotting _i_ s and crossing _t_ s and clacking her way through the evening's report with uncharacteristic good grace. Before long, he finds himself drifting, fingers drumming on the keys in front of him as he considers a change of pace, something that might be more appropriate for the occasion. A short adventure story for Alexis, maybe. Sure, she's in college, but college doesn't mean no more adventure stories, right?

"Does going to college mean you're not interested in adventure stories anymore?" he asks Beckett absently, before he remembers he's not supposed to be bothering her. 

She doesn't seem to mind, though, just puts down her pen and rests her chin on her hand with an ease he associates more with his kitchen on a Sunday morning than with the precinct. He likes the contrast. 

"A girl never gets too old for a good adventure story," she answers. "I'm sure Alexis would love it."

"Mmm," he muses, and opens a blank document. Something about ice skating, maybe. Ice dancing, ice sculptures… ice _demons_. Grinning, he starts to type. _It was a crisp winter evening, with the bite of chill in the air. No one knew, however, just how sharp that bite would be._

"You're not," Beckett says suddenly. 

It takes some effort to tear himself away from the plot starting to crystallize in his mind like frost on a window. "Huh?"

"You're not a playboy," she says. "Above it all, master of all you survey." Her expression goes wry and fond. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you did a hell of an impression of it, when I first met you. But even then… you _cared_ about people. You wanted to know their stories." She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and grins. "It used to drive me nuts, that I couldn't hate you as much as I wanted to."

"Aww, and I thought it was all my roguish good looks and irresistible charm," he says, because form demands it, though the warmth at the praise goes all the way out to his toes.

"Hmm, yeah, not so much," she says, narrowing her eyes, but she's still smiling. She rubs her foot up and down against his, a quick caress. "You're a good man, Richard Castle." 

He smiles back in what he's relatively certain is a much more doofy than sauve way. He's also a hundred percent certain he doesn't care. "That," he says, "is the nicest present you could have given me." 

Then there's quiet, just more doofy smiling—on both sides, this time—and maybe even a hint of blushing (though Rick will never admit to it), and the distant clack of heeled boots somewhere on the floor above them. An idea swims lazily to the surface in Rick's mind. "Next year maybe Mother and Alexis can bring take-out."

Beckett tilts her head to the side, eyebrow raised. "Next year?" He can't quite read her expression, but he thinks he sees hope in it.

"Well, yeah." He shrugs. "I can't imagine Karpowski is going to want a half-shift again, and you get a dinner break, right? So I'm sure Mother and Alexis can fit us into their busy social calendar, if we give them enough notice."

She just looks at him, and there's no doubting the look on her face now, bright as a star on a clear night. "Okay," she says softly. Just that, but it goes straight to his heart, makes him hold his breath for fear of breaking the spell.

He's not quite sure how long the moment stretches out, but eventually, without another word, she bends her head over the papers in front of her again. He shakes his head a bit to clear it, and tries to focus on his own laptop screen. He can hear her pen scratching against paper. After a few seconds, she tears a page off the pad in front of her and slides it over to him.

 _Supply closet. 4:05. Bring mistletoe,_ she's written, all neat and professional against the familiar yellow college-rule. When he looks over at her, she's working intently on a requisition form, with just the hint of a wicked smile at the corners of her mouth.

Rick bites down hard on the inside of his cheek and settles back into his chair. He checks his watch. Just over three hours to go.

Best. Christmas. Ever.


End file.
